


Moderation

by lindenwaverly



Series: For I was once your shield, and you were once my sword. [2]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Sad, Sad sad sad, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:56:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindenwaverly/pseuds/lindenwaverly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’ll tell himself that he envies Charles for the mansion and the beds that were the softest things he’d ever felt, or the endless library with the huge fireplace, or the port that was older than some of the kids and made Charles gag after each sip (though he tried to hide it ). Away from the mansion, the only thing they drink is water from the tap and sodas filched from vending machines, the only books he has are the stained pulp novels and graffitied Bibles he finds in motel draws and the beds are either too hot or too cold or too scratchy or something, but lord knows he can’t sleep in any of them.</p><p>What Erik really envies him for is his ability to organise his mind, to tuck away those thoughts he doesn’t want into tidy locked cabinets and forget them.</p><p>(After the beach, Erik thinks).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moderation

 

Some days, lying on his back in another ugly motel room or antiseptic safe house, listening to Emma and Raven snapping at each other downstairs, he’ll half-laugh to himself and envy Charles for getting to keep the quiet ones.

 

(Ignoring the fact that Sean’s mutation was the ability to create loud noises, he _did_ rarely speak).

 

Or he’ll tell himself that he envies Charles for the mansion and the beds that were the softest things he’d ever felt, or the endless library with the huge fireplace, or the port that was older than some of their students and made Charles gag after each sip (though he tried to hide it ). Away from the mansion, the only thing they drink is water from the tap and sodas filched from vending machines, the only books he has are the stained pulp novels and graffitied Bibles he finds in motel draws and the beds are either too hot or too cold or too scratchy or _something,_ but lord knows he can’t sleep in any of them.

 

What Erik really envies him for is his ability to organise his mind, to tuck away those thoughts he doesn’t want into tidy locked cabinets and forget them. That’s as far as he ever gets down that train of thought – and then even he, disorganized mind though he has, forces himself to stop.

 

Maybe he can’t sleep because he’s always got the damn helmet on.

 

Some days he wonders what would happen if he took it off. He reasons that Charles is the only one who could find him without it, and he must have stopped looking by now. Azazel sometimes goes over there to gather information. The school is growing daily. Apparently he looks happy, even in his – even in his new condition ( _A thought stutter, Erik. You’d be surprised how many people have them.)_ They haven't been in contact since the beach. Imagining he’s still top of Charles’s list of priorities if half-paranoia, half-arrogance.

 

But some nights, when the bed in the motel is so uncomfortable that he’s sure that it’s deliberate and he can’t bear to even look in the draw to find out what there is to read, he wonder what it would be like if he did take off the helmet while Charles was in Cerebro. Would the place instantly be surrounded by cop cars and agents and helicopters overhead, with some lucky local journalists waiting nearby with cameras to see who was getting dragged out in handcuff? Would he send the students, trusting that Alex wouldn’t rip off his chest piece and burn them all to a crisp or that Hank wouldn’t tear into Raven with his bright new teeth and claws? Or would he come alone, nothing but a frail man in a wheel chair with his last and only trick rendered useless by the helmet, relying on nothing but his too-big eyes and his ever-so-reasonable, ever-so-moderate words? The last one is always a possibility. It was extraordinary the faith that man could have.

 

Erik knows what he’d tell him if he came. That he was an idiot, to have that kind of faith in him, to have that kind of faith in anyone. That a poor little rich boy could hardly be expected to understand, but the world wasn’t exactly kind to those on the outside. That his clever speeches and little mind tricks and policy of assimilation would do nothing but send Alex and Hank and Sean to a lab or a barrack or, god, a mass grave.  And Charles along with them, too, however untouchable he thought he was. Erik would stop him, no, he’d stop _them,_  the FBI and the CIA and whoever else,he’d burn down the whole world and the mansion too if it kept Charles safe.

 

He takes off the helmet and stands in the moonlight for a minute, five minutes, ten. Then he puts it back on.


End file.
